


We Were Born to Die

by darkrosaleen



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: Drunk Sex, Dry Humping, F/M, Fingering, First Time
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-13
Updated: 2014-02-13
Packaged: 2018-01-12 04:31:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1181934
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darkrosaleen/pseuds/darkrosaleen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Sh," Haymitch whispers, running his big hands up and down my back. They're warm through the satin of my dress. "It's alright, sweetheart. You're alright."</p><p>"Don't lie," I choke, my face muffled in his shirt.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We Were Born to Die

**Author's Note:**

> Prompts: dark, don't, safe, silence, understand. Set right before the Quarter Quell.

Haymitch used to be handsome, and it bothers me more than it should. I can still see it in his shrewd gray eyes, the clever twist of his smile, the humor that would be deadly if it wasn't a few steps ahead of the Capitol. He said something about my figure once, in that awful way he has of making jokes sound like the real thing, and it made me blush more than any of the looks Peeta's been giving me.

I am going to die in the arena, but when I'm full of heady Capitol wine and I storm out of dinner in tears, it isn't Peeta's arms I fall into.

"Sh," Haymitch whispers, running his big hands up and down my back. They're warm through the satin of my dress. "It's alright, sweetheart. You're alright."

"Don't lie," I choke, my face muffled in his shirt. He smells like sweat and cheap aftershave, dirty and sharp and familiar. I suddenly remember curling up in my father's lap and falling asleep on his chest, and I start sobbing again, even though Haymitch smells nothing like coal smoke.

"Not lying." His arms tighten, pulling me against his solid body. It makes my breath go shaky and then even out. "You're fucked, we all are, but right now I've got you."

I take another deep breath and let it out. Haymitch is whispering things against my hair, soft things about how good I am, and it makes me shiver through the heaviness of the wine. I can feel my breasts pressing against his chest.

"Haymitch." My throat is thick with tears, and I must sound pathetic, because he threads his fingers through my hair. "Haymitch, I'm going to die. You promised."

"I did." His fingers are strong and gentle against my scalp, and I shiver again. "You should go be with your boy."

Of course he knows. We're too alike to hide things from each other. "He's not my boy." I can't tell whether I'm more hurt or relieved by it. "And I don't want to lie. Not tonight."

"Good thing we're standing up, then." 

It's so ridiculous that I have to laugh. It seems so vulgar, doing this standing up in a public hallway, but not as vulgar as everything else. 

Haymitch leans down and kisses me. His lips are chapped and his stubble is rough against my face, but his mouth moves like he knows what he's doing. I make a sound when his tongue brushes mine, surprise fizzing across my skin like champagne bubbles, and I feel him smile against my mouth.

"Come here," Haymitch grunts. He turns us around and presses me back into the nearest lighting alcove. I'm not hidden, but the shadows and tight corners and Haymitch's bulk pressing close make me feel like it. I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding.

"Sh," Haymitch whispers again. He slips his hand under my skirt, and his fingers are rough against the smooth, hairless skin of my thigh. "You'll have to be quiet, sweetheart. Let them think you're just a maudlin drunk being comforted by your mentor."

His face is ruddier than usual, and I wonder if it excites him too, how wrong this feels. I can't imagine doing this with someone my age, being gentle and slow as if I have any innocence left.

"I grew up in the Seam," I say. "Of course I can be quiet." That makes him laugh, and I allow myself to imagine Haymitch as a teenager, touching himself in the dark while his brother slept. I wonder if he would bite his lip, if his eyes got wide and glassy like they are now. I can't believe it's been twenty-five years since then.

Haymitch pushes aside my ridiculous lace underwear and presses against my opening. I have to bite my hand to avoid making noise, and when Haymitch grins, it's the same grin I saw on the tapes. He rubs, slowly, and I can feel how slick I am.

"Easy, girl." He wraps his free arm around me, pulling me against his chest. "That's it. I've got you."

I'm throbbing under his fingers. It's different, being touched there by someone else, and Haymitch has such big, rough hands. I hold onto his shirt as he slips the first finger inside, biting my lip at the stretch and slide of it. I want to be quiet, because Haymitch told me to, but it's hard when he keeps finding spots that make me shudder.

The second finger goes in, stretching almost painfully. Haymitch is hard against my stomach, and his breathing is loud in the sterile silence of the hallway. I want to feel him in my hand, to take him apart, to crumple against his chest and let him hold me up. 

He adds another finger, and I let out a breath that sounds like a sob, bracing my head against his chest.

"It's okay," he says, louder than he needs to. He drags his fingers over that spot again and I choke on a whimper. It hurts and it feels good and I haven't felt this small in a long time. "Go ahead and cry, sweetheart."

I don't have to look at Haymitch to understand what he's telling me. He grinds his thumb against my clit and I'm there, shaking apart on his fingers. He holds me through it, moving his fingers gently until even that is too much. Still, I feel hollow when he pulls them out.

"You didn't…" I reach for the bulge in his pants, my hands bolder than my words. Haymitch grabs my wrists and pins them at my sides.

"I didn't." He pulls me close again, resting his chin on top of my head. He doesn't move, but when I push up on my toes to rub against him, he doesn't stop me. 

"Oh, sweetheart. That's a good girl." His hands are gentle now, rubbing in slow circles on my back and my neck. I find a better angle, and Haymitch inhales sharply and grabs at my dress. I want to see his face, but he's holding my head down.

He starts moving against me right before he comes. He holds me so tight it's almost painful, and I can feel him throbbing in his pants. He doesn't let go when he's finished, just holds me tighter and breathes harshly through the quiet.

"Aveleen— _Katniss._ Oh, baby girl."

I can't be angry at him, not when I've been searching his face for the boy who beat the Capitol at its own game. I pull away, just enough to smooth my skirt down. "I'm not a baby, Haymitch."

He runs a gentle hand over my hair. "I know, sweetheart." There's something tired and soft in his eyes, and I think of my father again, how he would braid my hair with careful fingers when my mother was busy with Prim. I think of the dark scruff on Gale's jaw, and the strength of Peeta's arms, and the spark in Haymitch's eyes before the Capitol snuffed it out. I don't need to ask what happened to Aveleen. 

I'm going to die, so I let Haymitch hold me until Effie comes out to find us.


End file.
